🌾 The Bread Between Suns 🌾

 

A Lammas Poem by Jen Diaz

I kneel in the threshold where gold meets rot,

where summer bleeds into her own shadow,

and press my palms into warm, trembling soil—

not to pray, but to claim.

The wheat bows because I am watching.

The wind carries my name like a secret.

I taste the salt of my own skin

and the gods pretend it’s their offering.

The wheel groans, old and aching,

but I ride it like a lover nearing dusk.

I am not afraid of endings.

I feast on them.

This is the season of ripened pulse—

of blood-warmed grain and blistered sun.

I bake with bare hands,

fingers sunk deep into the flesh of flour,

and every rise is a resurrection spell.

I tear the bread as I would a throat—

slow, deliberate, divine.

Each bite a vow:

to feed myself first,

to burn only for what is mine,

to honor the fire I was born from.

Let them whisper of sacrifice.

I call it sovereignty.

Let them kneel at altars.

I become one.

Beneath the crust, beneath the sun,

I remain—

a body of harvest and hunger,

a chalice of dusklight and dust.

I am the feast.

I am the flame.

I am the dark mouth of Lammas,

and I do not starve.